


The Brier Patch

by indi_indecisive



Category: Fable (Video Games), Game of Thrones (Video Game 2014)
Genre: Attempted Murder, Bloodlust, Crossover, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Immortality, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not Happy, Sex for Favors, Sexual Content, Wrongful Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-16 04:01:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7251166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indi_indecisive/pseuds/indi_indecisive





	1. To Kill

It is another night of hiding away within the walls of another’s library, hidden among the books where crisp and wrinkled papers alike emit a sweet almond-like scent, and Asher can nestle into a large, plush wingback chair with a hidden flask of ale in his pocket; a rare brand of alone time where he is truly relaxed within the walls of Lake View Manor. While not truly hidden and not completely alone, he was away from the many people, servants and guests alike, who took to wandering the Manor; in all the time, none seemed to think to find the mercenary within the library. Asher was quite the reader, a likely surprise to those ostentatious souls that gathered in such a place, but beyond the chance to read, he found the library to be the place he was most comfortable in; in domestic setting.

If one could ever find such comfort in Lake View Manor with its titled owner present, Asher was quite sure the word was not allowed to exist when it came to the immortal man.

Still, while guest and servants do not think to find him tucked away in the almond-like scented room, Reaver knew it was where Asher would wander off to when he tired of the other guests. Where Asher spent his time hating everything that he had allowed himself to fall to when it came to the man. How Asher loved to hate what he traded away, what he unwillingly owed to Reaver, though he would deny it.

Often times, when inviting the young mercenary, Reaver specifically instructed for him to wait within the library’s walls; annoying to the mercenary. Like this particular night; where there was not another guest besides Asher in the Manor, rather peculiar he had thought as he denied the offer of wine from an overzealous servant, satisfied with the cheap ale in an even cheaper flask shoved somewhere in his pockets.

The doors to the library opened, Asher cocking his head slightly to the right, not sparing a second thought to rising from his seat rather keeping his ass placed on the cushions. In all regards, the chair was too comfortable to move, and he knew who had come for him. Familiarized with the others step, he could not stomach the thought of greeting the man in his own home, especially considering there was no other eyes to demand such polite customs.

Forest gaze trailed over the cheap flask, tilting his head back slightly, the cool metal curve pressed against his bottom lip as he quickly finished off the contents. Such a cheap thing, bought on a whim only an hour before arriving, filled quickly with a cheap tavern ale and drained away as the night progressed just the same.

The soft tapping of a cane against his cheek, the corner of Asher’s lips tugged downwards, idly swatting away at the thing that he had wanted nothing more than to break the moment he laid his eyes upon it.

“Hello, Reaver.” Finally playing the part of a humble guest, though a little late on the deliver of hello, an intentional action to annoy Reaver. He knew the other disliked the absence of a greeting, confirmed by the slight hum packed tightly with disappointment from the aforementioned man. The corner of Asher’s lips twitched upwards; he enjoyed being correct about Reaver, moments that did not happen as often as wanted.

“Not going to have any wine tonight?” Reaver asked, judging, moving to take a seat in another wingback chair adjacent to the one that Asher had claimed. He sat down in a delicate fashion, keeping graceful appearances thought Asher’s gaze did not rest upon him.

“Well, a man can only drink so much wine in a week.” Asher countered, the word man fell from his lips almost mockingly. Reaver was no longer a man, nor was Asher. Both were seen as monsters, Reaver more so than himself. “I highly doubt you’ve invited me here to drink wine. Again.”

“Aren’t you rather impatient.” Reaver hummed, lighter than before. “I’ve graciously invited you for a special little treat, and you haven’t even touched the wine I bought for such an occasion.” Little treat, an insulting comment, though it is shoved in casual talk.

Reaver’s little pup worked hard, he deserved a treat.

“Fine. I’ll take a glass later.”

Reaver tapped his cane lightly against the library’s floor, three solid strikes in order to pull Asher’s attention away from the many, many shelved books. Asher had been studying them, in part to decide the next book he would read, and also to annoy.

Asher cocked a brow, slowly drawing his focus onto the other man. An action forced, though he had taken enjoyment in withholding any form of attention from Reaver. Noting the satchel the other held, a rather plain thing to be found in gloved hands, it seemed the sort of item that Asher would have owned, and not the ostentatious man before him. The satchel’s leather was peeling, discolored browns gave the appearance of a creature disrupted in the middle of it’s sloughing.

Reaver tossed it easily, and Asher caught it.

It was far heavier than it looked, whatever was inside gave off a pleasant buzz, tingling his palms and making Asher feel strange. Perhaps the strange feeling gripping his body was Reaver’s gaze upon him, whose lips stayed firmly shut in a grin, little intention to speak as he brought a leg over the other. Fortunately Asher was able to distinguish that the buzzing was not from Reaver’s gaze, originating from whatever lay inside.

Skilled fingers gentle flipped the satchel open, fingers used to opening all things that contained loot, eagerness lost briefly as he pulled away his hand upon catching a glimpse of what was inside. A large, disk-like object, which Asher could only have assumed was adorned with the symbol of the Heroes’ Guild. Shifting the satchel just a tad to reveal the symbol, Asher could not help but notice that that was an older version. Not surprising once he thought about it.

Casting his glance back to Reaver, the other merely gave him a shrug, and an exaggerated wave of a gloved hand. It was a gamble on either end, the final push in confirming or denying usefulness and blood. “Go on, Asher. You shouldn’t keep me waiting.”

Asher would have loved nothing more than to continue keeping the man waiting, to take his sweet time in discovering the truth; but even he was eager to know. A little grin danced along his lips, quickly slipping free the Seal from its leather bindings, it landed in his lap with a soft, dull thud. Swearing dust had filtered up from it, the Seal had a rather airy charm to it, and Asher’s fingertips hovering along to trace the Seal, an inch or less from touching it.

He did not want to appear as eager as he truly was, at least not with Reaver watching, it was not too much to believe that Reaver had already noticed. Then, unable to withhold himself any longer, Asher grabbed it. It was warm in his hands, fingers curling to hold on tightly, as if another would try ripping it free from his grasp.

Burning. A burn that caused pain, but did not blacken and peel his skin. Light shone brightly in his face, incredibly blinding, and Asher had to squint against it, and though he tried tearing his gaze away from the Seal it seemed to hold his head in place. Refusing to relinquish its hold, his hands felt heavy, all his limbs felt like they weighed tons. 

A strange experience, but it was not unwelcome by his body, it seemed natural enough that there was no response to fight against it. Not even whilst he slipped into the unconscious world, his fingers clutching even tighter to the Guild Seal. Body slouching slightly in the chair, slipping into the secondary world of Hero’s was a rather surreal experience; conscious, but not aware. Reminiscent of being drugged, but the connection is not there as he participates in personal experiences.

It became debatable if the trip into an existence where many before him had gone upon touching the Seal was good or bad. For Asher could not have seen the malicious grin that tugged and danced along Reaver’s face, nor hear the cheery tune that he began humming as he waited for the younger man to awaken.

The moments passed by slowly, but Reaver had resigned himself to waiting, and he would not deny the slightest motion of surprise when Asher awakens quicker than he had predicted.

Lazily blinking his eyes open, Asher readjusting his seating, tongue running along the back of his teeth and tasting the faint traces of copper; he had not bit his lip, and the cheap ale was not the source. Blond lashes fluttered, not bothering to raise his gaze to Reaver, rather keeping it downwards at his lap as he slipped the Seal back into its leather holding. Staring for a moment longer, the slight raise of his head, forest gaze flickering to Reaver.

Asher’s chest rose and fell in tune to Reaver’s, each breath was intense, each touch was magnified. Heart pounding in his ears like a war drum, his limbs felt even stranger than they had while holding the Seal. Coursing through the young mercenary’s systems was an adrenaline that he had learned to shut down within a fight, adrenaline did not serve well in combat. Asher felt strange, and the way that Reaver looked at him did little to help shake the feeling away.

“Have you gotten what you wanted, Reaver?”

“Don’t I always?”

Answering his question with another was enough for Asher. His fingers curled around the satchel, rising from the chair far too quickly, turning slightly to drop the hidden Seal onto the chair’s cushions. Reaver mimicked the action of standing, rather he lazily lifted himself from the chair.

Long strides across the room towards the gaudy, cocky man. On his face a pleasure in seeing his investment had not fallen flat, that he would not need to dirty his library with blood and brain-goo; it would have been a shame to buy all new furniture, though an excellent excuse to buy new furniture.

Asher’s hand darted out, grabbing the scruff of Reaver’s shirt in a twist of fingers which soon closed into a tight fist. Taking another step, though it ended more of a stumble from the shaking of his knees, until he was pressed up against Reaver with the force that he had been holding back for some time. Not surprisingly, Reaver stood his ground as Asher leaned in, keeping himself solid, straight, in control in a manner of speaking. Their lips hovered over each other in a strange caress that wasn’t quite a kiss, but a single word, or the slightest lean forward would have changed just that.

Asher noticed the curve of Reaver’s lips, the sharp glean in his eyes as he looked down to measure the disappearing distance between them. The bastard. Asher could not help but insult the mind in mind, he appeared to be on the verge of laughing.

“Are you just going to stand there all night?” Reaver spoke, his voice smooth and in control.

 

The nights they shared together continued to grow less foreign, Asher’s own focus shifting to seeking pleasure and less of pure hate fucking. In the moments of orgasmic pleasure, his hate was momentarily lost, forgotten until they finished.

How could he hold onto hate in the moments that his lips were pressing and peppering another’s skin with gentle, sweet kisses. Kisses which seemed vaguely caring for the man, contradictory to any word that would ever be spat from the mouth that kissed him. A skilled tongue slowly making its way along a nipple, circling it, the eyes of the Forrester flickering upwards as he teased in order to watch Reaver’s reaction; he had to look away, for he refused to gain fondness for a dangerous man again, he refused to gain fondness for a man that could had none.

Asher was skilled with his tongue, his mouth, his hands, many other things; trained in order to pleasure, a secret hidden. Taught in his exile by force, but such things would fall deaf to Reaver’s ears, the man would never care unless faking care would benefit him, but even then it was not caring but greed. Asher worked these skills all over Reaver’s body, as if he was brought into the bedroom, into existence, with the man in order to only pleasure him.  
Peppering kisses downwards, nipping lightly at the skin, slowly increasing the pressure in a taunting manner where he threatened to draw blood. Of course, he never broke skin, it was always an almost; never drawing blood on Reaver.

Sucking skin, licking, when fingers coiled into his curled short locks, and moans reached his ears; he knew that he was pleasing. Paying attention to the little things, careful to notice it, the slight twitch of flesh when he touched there and not here, the low purr from the other as he licked or nipped there. Mindful when he pleased, regardless if it was Reaver or not, treating Reaver like another lover minus the love. Fucking him with pure raging lust.

It was never enough.

Traveling downwards his mouth was soon filled, lashes batting his eyes closed, head bobbing up and down. What was not being focused on was being touched by his hands, areas that he could reach while occupied with sucking; the slightest squeeze here, or the scratch of nails along flesh. The grip in his hair tightening, one hand quickly leaving Reaver’s body to touch his own.

It was not enough.

Asher was a patient man, a shiver along his spine as fingers dug into his scalp, eyes fluttering open. Staring upwards once again, he stopped his bobbing, looking to Reaver with heavy lidded eyes. Cocking a brow, the slightest dip of Reaver’s chin ushered him to move up, and though he did not capture Reaver’s lips into a kiss he began kissing the other’s neck.

Then he was flipped over, Reaver on top of him, Asher arching upwards naturally to grind their bodies together. He liked the way they felt pressed against each other, of course it would never be admitted aloud, and if it were, never in anything other than lust-filled setting. Always silent in bed, never a man to moan aloud, each moan that escaped his lips was often breathy, and the times where he was on his stomach he would bite his lip or bite into a pillow. Tonight he did none of these things, rather buried his face into the crook of Reaver’s neck, a low drawl of a moan escaping his lips, and ultimately urging the other on.

Asher liked being touched just as much as he liked to touch, if not more, of course it seemed to not be an uncommon sentiment.

Everything was driving him over the edge; the sheets that tickled his naked back, incidentally the place he had also decided to let his fingers curl desperately into as he was fucked. Reaver’s hands against him, along his skin, in his hair and tugging to elicit louder moans which would sound in the others ear.

It was enough.

It was enough to come, and it was enough for Reaver’s name to leave his lips in a low, pleasured moan, although it was muffled against Reaver’s neck.

 

Asher found himself lying in silence for what seemed to be hours, though it was not a true silence. To his right was a soft breath, the warmth of another body beside him, the whipping of wind outside, and the dull thuds of what Asher assumed to be sneaking servants. Of course, it had been hours since the moments of pleasure, and though he was exhausted, and bored, blond lashes fought away sleep with each blink. He had waited long for the moment, and he thought that tonight was the right moment; if it had not been he would not have dared to try it. Fingers inched slowly upwards until they wiggled themselves underneath the puffed pillow, stowed away was a knife.

A silly plan, of course it would not be the first time that Asher had slit another’s throat after sex, he recalled a woman in Aurora who he had watched choke on her blood for a considerable time, her breasts incredibly red even in the dark of night. He was rather surprised the knife had not been discovered.

It was extremely questionable, actually. Though, Asher chose not to trail after those thoughts, he could focus on them after he finished slitting Reaver’s throat like a common dinner pig.

Fingers curled around the golden, metallic handle of the dagger. Freeing it from the confines of the fluffy pillow, which Asher had half a mind to steal, he held the weapon to his chest for a considerable time. Cold against his skin, but familiar enough to not cause a shiver to ghost its way along his spine. Fingertips danced idly along the handle, lightly tapping in order to keep himself awake, and in some parts to encourage himself in committing; whispering rumors circulated around Reaver’s immortality, the man did not age, but had he ever had his throat slit?

Slowly focus pulled to the steady breathing besides him, aware of the dip in the bed, and the slightest shift of movement causing the covers to slide slightly off his abdomen. He looked, watching the discomfort form in the others face.

Asher had to act now, for the next chance to try if he were to fail or not even try would be few, if not existent.

Rolling over quickly, straddling Reaver, with his knees on either side of the man, Asher became uncomfortable and cold.

He had done this many times before to many different people, the unsettling feeling in his gut needed to dissipate, briefly disrupted in his personal challenge to make it vanish by the hitched breath and furrowed brow of a sleeping man. Giving his head a slight shake, Asher pressed the cold blade against Reaver’s throat, a thin line of red appearing even in the mostly absent of light in the bedroom. A loud, almost echoing, ‘tsk’ filled his ears, and the gentle press of a pistol’s muzzle was against the side of his head. Not that it needed to be placed there, the Hero of Skill could have fired at any distance, a few inches was nothing to him.

Asher had been caught, and he averted his gaze to the spot he had been laying in moments previous.

“Tah tah, Asher.” The words were soothingly mocking, behind them snapped a bitter danger. Soon Asher found fingers curling around his own wrist, tight, and perfectly manicured nails threatened to break his skin. Perhaps as payment for drawing blood. “Let go now.”

Asher’s fingers felt incredibly stiff, almost as if they were stuck to the dagger. He could not tell if it was his own pure stubbornness in refusing to submit to Reaver’s command or that he had somehow managed to meld his fingertips to the weapons handle.

They were at a brief stalemate. The pressure of a muzzle to his temple, and the fingernails digging into his flesh and beginning to draw blood broke it.  
It would have been easier to press the dagger downwards, to make the thin slice on Reaver’s neck larger. Instead he let go.

Once he let go, Reaver flipped them over, and Asher let himself go limp. The dagger had been dangerously released during the movement, lost somewhere, until Asher heard the clatter of it’s blade hitting the floor. He keep his head turned away, even though Reaver straddled him now, and basically taunted the younger man with the pressing of his gun. The moment was slow, Asher listening to their synchronized breathing, awaiting a bullet to be shot.

Of course he doubted Reaver would dirty his bed if he didn’t have to, bringing a hand to his neck, it was nothing more than a scratch that would heal quickly to prove that Asher had any harmful achievement during the night. Asher could work with that, playing the one fact easily, his head turning and gaze slowly flickering to stare back at the other man.

“Get off.”

“I must say, I’m severely disappointed. Trying to slit my throat after we’ve had sex? Such a boring, dull way to deal with your problems–”

“Get off, Reaver.”

“–Of course, your problems have never been me before.” An amused chuckle sounded, it was sickening to Asher’s stomach. Reaver continued talking, his pistol had shifted its rest from the side of his head to the middle of his forehead. Rather annoying, the talking, Asher would have exchanged Reaver’s talking for another pistol.

“Reaver.” Asher snapped, bringing a hand to curl his fingers around the other’s wrist, the one which held the pistol to his face. It was a rather bold move, but Asher had always been a bold man.

Looking to Reaver, he noticed the weariness that followed from the sleeping world to the waking, and it was something to drive his boldness. Like the damaged hands the other had from too many years of living, the little imperfections along his soft skin from many years of fighting; during the night Asher had taken the time to study these hands, by morning they would be gloved and Reaver would appear less human. Without the gloves, he became less of a gluttonous monster and more of a man. Asher was often left with the single thought of how.

“It’s dangerous to disappoint me, especially after I’ve been so generous to you.” Reaver never gave, there was always a catch to his false generosity.

“Giving is such a strong word, it’s not applicable to you or anything you’ve done. At least not as Reaver.” Asher countered, wry humor putting a slight quirk in his mouth; he had read, and he was letting Reaver know. A wave of tiredness and fear crashed over him, perhaps the fuel to his lack of care to future punishment or death. Unwavering gaze, he did not dare look towards the doors, not giving Reaver the satisfaction of seeing such a weakness. “Investing. I think that suits what you do better, everything seems more of an investment to you.”

Just as quickly as Reaver had mounted him, he slid off; aggravation clear, but tiredness stronger from the dreams he would never share and being awoken by the blade. In another quick moment, Asher sat up, and he kept his back to Reaver. Feet pressed against the cold floor, letting his hands rest against his thighs, Asher’s gaze flickered to the bedroom doors.

There was no motion to rise from the comfortable bed or to commit to leaving. Appearing indecisive, or rather he mulled over the idea of whether or not he was allowed to leave. If he stood, collected his clothing, and headed to the door there stood a chance that Reaver would shoot him the moment he was far enough that he would not end up splattering and dirtying his bed with fleshy bits.

“If I were you, and I am glad that I am not you, I would hope that you prove to be a valuable investment for me.” Reaver hummed, but his humming did not hide the sourness as he put his gun away back from whence it had come. Asher wanted to know where it came from, where it had gone, but his caring fell short as he continued staring at the doors.

His blood boiled, trapped in flesh, and he flexed his hand impatiently.

“Of course. Anything for you, Reaver.” The newfound Hero of Strength’s tone was light, mocking, and laced with sarcasm. Once more he lay on Reaver’s bed, this time on his side, keeping his back to the man he had the unfortunate situation of knowing.


	2. Crimson Lingerie

He wanders, awoke earlier than usual, long before the sun had made its promise to rise; Asher had slipped from his bed and dressed quickly into clothes that were more distasteful that comfortable; clothes that Reaver had picked for him to wear, whispered sweet words against his ear and demanded he wear them as long as he kept foot in the manor, if it were up to Asher he’d wear his armor and nothing but. Still, with retaliation, he forgets the lingerie, and instead makes his way down the halls quickly with one intent in the mind. To leave, a walk past the lake, perhaps he would go somewhere cold and far from Reaver for the day; a trip to town seemed nice as well, where he could drink a hearty ale instead of wine, to eat tough meat and escape.

As quick as he was, it always seemed Reaver would be quicker. He knew, yet he had hoped, that Reaver would find himself sleeping instead of reflecting– instead of being haunted, and however much he tries to hide it, he can not hide nightly terrors from a man who experiences them himself. Still, he had hoped, close to leaving as the sun begins to kiss the lands of Albion with her light, until there is a finger catching the collar of his – Reaver’s – shirt. He stops on command, curses himself for how trained he has become, heart pounding in his chest as fingers press against his hips and curl tight enough that he knows there will be bruises.

“I thought I told you to wear it,” a whisper against the shell of his ear, it makes Asher’s heart beat faster as it causes a shiver along his spine, and for his lips to pull back and a low snarl to leave his throat; too many emotions, beneath them all was disgust. The fingers tighten against his hips, partly searching, partly holding. “I am,” he lies. They both know it was a lie, or perhaps Reaver sat on the edge of knowing, the hum leaving his lips does not give Asher the comfort to think his lie would work. As quickly as he had been caught, he can feel the wall pressed against his back, blinking as his vision goes from the freedom of a door to Reaver: Reaver, in near perfection, Reaver, with his lips pressed tight as he thinks, and his stupid fucking face hiding the tiredness of his existence. Asher’s breath is shaker than he remembers, palms pressing against the wall.

“It’s never wise to lie to me, Asher.” His voice, sweet and disgusting; just as Asher is compelled to listen, he’s compelled to drive his fist into Reaver’s teeth. Too many things, he shifts, but Reaver holds him steady. “It’s a good thing none have described me as wise.” He retorts, lips turning upwards into a cocky grin, forest hues relishing the moment; the corner of Reaver’s lips twitch, a hand falls to his waist, to his sword, and in the moment Asher finds that the idea of Reaver gutting him was more pleasurable than sex. He’d take it with open arms, with a more genuine happiness than ever moment he’s ever taken Reaver’s cock inside of him.

Even then, even if the words are not spoken aloud, Reaver will never give Asher what he wants. He takes a step back, the sharp click of his boot keeps Asher against the wall, and then it was the point of his sword pressed against the center of his chest that holds him there. His breath hitches, forest hues locking with the ocean that was Reaver’s; both deep, both sets of gazes lost. Neither break eye contact as Reaver slowly trails his sword down, the sound of ripping clothing the only thing shared between the two. His shirt falls to the ground like ribbons, pools at Asher’s feet, and he shudders; there were no straps of the deep red lingerie that was demanded of him to be worn, clearly evident that it was missing, yet Reaver’s sword makes its way down.

The tip of his sword circles Asher’s growing erection, there’s shame in the way his cheeks flush, even more shame in how the danger of a sword near his cock makes him harder. “Ta, ta, Asher.” He purrs it, slides his tongue across his lips, but even that betrays the anger he’s found in Asher’s disobedience. Asher does not turn his head away, as much as he wants to, as much as he wants to look away from those cold, tormenting eyes. “Reaver,” his name is a pant, something to be heard after Reaver’s cock has left his swollen, abused lips and Asher wants nothing more than to be fucked; the panting of Reaver’s name has no business in this savage moment. Just as he had done with Asher’s shirt, Reaver cuts away his pants, teasingly slow and meticulous in the manner he slices away the fabric.

There was no crimson lingerie beneath his clothes; with clothes cut away he is left standing in simple underwear, thighs quivering in anticipation to what his mind will always argue on wanting and not wanting. The sword does not return to its place at his side, either, and Asher can not help the gasp that escapes between his lips when the tip of that sword, so cold, ghosts across the pale, pink whip scars that seemed to have been gained an eternity ago. “Didn’t I tell you to wear it?” He asks, tilts his head to the side, licks his lips and Asher can not help but think of a wolf about to devour its prey. “Didn’t I tell you not to lie?” The sword lowers, slowly, and finds itself back in its sheath at Reaver’s side. He leans in then, a glove-less hand on his shoulder, the other rests against his chest and pinches his nipple; hard enough that it hurts, but Asher doesn’t flinch to the pain. He never does, and it becomes appeal in Reaver’s mind.

“Bedroom,” he whispers against Asher’s ear, catches his earlobe between his teeth. Asher takes a breath, a sharp intake of air to stop any reaction to it, and the demand from him helps him find the will to draw his lips into a scowl, a low snarl leaving pulled from the depths of his chest. “Now.”


	3. I loved him; not love him.

A night to be soft, where gentleness bloomed in unfamiliar territory, kindness crept into places where it shouldn’t be– where it should not have been able to thrive; it was a hum beneath flesh. an intoxicating rhythm to every breath as calloused fingers trailed slow across a naked form, trimmed nails scraped lightly against pale skin leaving behind ashen red marks.

No protest, nothing but the shiver of nerves, the slot of a leg between his thighs and the hooking of an ankle over his; he played his surprise with a soft chortle and believed he would have been slapped in any other instance. It was … strange, almost frightening. Asher pressed his lips to the bulge of Reaver’s adam’s apple, steadying his breathing by focusing on how he swallows; the beat of a heart against his palm was steady, a drum of exhaustion and the escape of sleep’s gentle arms.

It was funny how they shared many sentiments; when flesh and bone was peeled away, revealing the mass extent of Heroic blood and humming thoughts, they were nothing but two halves of the same man along the same path. One gone where the other feared he would travel one day, where footsteps were darkened tendrils and light lay a lie in the heart. To him, Reaver had succumbed to that which Asher shunned; what Asher knew would peel his heart away.

He had given nothing to the world but everything genuine, and he knew he could easily become a Reaver, especially as he pressed his lips to the corner of the man’s mouth. They were being too tender with one another, too soft, leaving too many openings for one another to dig, to gouge away their state of minds and replace them with seeding manipulation masked as concern. It was frightened, but Asher did not shy away.

He took the words, swallowed them down with toxic kisses; there was a piece of him that could not handle hearing that Reaver was anything but a man out for the accumulation and growth of his own wealth. He willed the flutter of his own heart to be stilled once the words were spoken, pained by how it stopped, how alive each pulse felt trapped in his ribcage– as if his own heart dared betray him to the heartless. The heart did not know what Reaver faced, the mind had only stolen bits of knowledge allowed to be taken for Asher knew Reaver had watched him; he had seen him take books and scraps of paper in his scarred hands, stowed away in the library to read what was stolen, ripped free from a forgotten prison. Asher had never been content to be a lavish piece of eye-candy.

“You may very well be a soul with good intentions,” Whispered with a kiss, his hand traveled down across Reaver’s abdomen, coming to rest at his hip to hold him, capture him, pin him to Asher’s side with the strength of a man who had honed himself to be a killer. A killer at his own hands, not others like Reaver, small details that he reminded himself every moment he was told to strikeout. Of course he disobeyed in secret, Reaver was not a God.

Asher shifted, trailing his lips across his collarbone, keeping the false-god subdued with body worship: William in his mind, the name sat on the tip of his tongue, waiting for the perfect moment to strike out, much like that of a sleeping cobra. “No one will ever believe you,” the grip on William’s hip turned near bruising, there was a certainty that purple and black would bloom by the morning, preemptively apologizing by running a thumb along his hip.

He could not fathom caring what Reaver did to him any longer.

“Even you know that William was never good.” There was tension in the silence, the catch of breath as hatred seeped from a low exhale. It was all Asher needed to continue, running his lips back up to the corner of Reaver’s, catching his eye through heavy blonde lashes. He did nothing more than hold his stare, slowly pressing kisses along a line he had followed earlier in the night. “What was the difference I wonder?” His hand wandered, back over the other’s heart, the movement slow and mournful.

He thought that he could have loved William. There was something about Reaver that drove his heart to beat faster, drove him to yearn and lust for more to love and hold, to do many things rather than hate him; he would find himself reluctant to admit it to himself. Pinpricks of pain trickled along his neck, there nothing to differentiate if it were Reaver’s nails in his neck or the burn of a stretch as lips ghosted over the shell of an earlobe.

Even now, Asher can not fathom why he continued speaking, he only knew he did not care. The gentle brush of warm air as he said, “The difference is I love him.”


End file.
